He’s looking in the wrong place. I know, because he’s looking for me.
I am unique. One of a kind. Or so I’ve been told. The same fantastic advertising mumbo jumbo told to those who have fat enough wallets, and to those who are so high on dopamine-induced euphoria that they are convinced, for however briefly, that love alone was currency enough for them to venture in here, to handpick the rock that will sink them, deep into the doldrums of the life they will share, till death do they part.
Most brave souls who dare to take the plunge are all hot messes in disguise: The women can barely contain their ecstatic giddiness, and the men visibly wince through their smiles even before they’re properly traumatized by the price tags.
I’d sparkle and dazzle atop my black velvet throne, making wagers on those who, as one, would be stronger than any turbulence life might bring, and those who will crash and burn. If I had a dollar for every time I was right, I’d probably be able to afford myself. Twice over.
Then one day, there he was, alone, with her on his mind, as she would always be for the rest of his life. He was, of course, anxious, like so many others before him. But the confidence in which he knew I was the one, in the soft yet steady way he spoke, of her, of his dreams for them, of the violin he pawned off just to be here, moved me. This was not a decision made in a moment of dopamine-induced euphoria. This was not the logical next step to resuscitate a codependency that’s outlived its expiration date. This was the beginning of a covenant that has weighed heavily on his heart, one that he has been prepared to commit to ever since the first day he met her.
The first time he released me from his white-knuckled death grip, I thought I’d finally meet her. Instead, he held me in his callous-padded fingertips, his gaze searing, as if he was mentally etching her contours in my reflection, as he rehearsed what he’d say to her. I’ve never looked at such fierce love right in the eyes.
This was where they first met, where they first spoke of dreams crescendoing into cadenzas, standing ovations, and encores. And this would be where they’d begin their concerto.
He was lost in his memories of her, in what the future would hold for them, perhaps in the violin that was no longer his. And in that moment of distraction, he lost me.
The sun is about to set. The placid waters of the port mock the roaring tide that must be crashing against his heart as he searches on fervently. I’d tell him if I could, that he’s looking in the wrong place. That he already has something that can’t be lost. That he is true, whether or not there is a diamond to show for it.
(I wrote this story years ago for a writing competition. The assignment was to write a story from a photograph of a man sitting inside Harpa, the opera house in Reykjavik, as the sun sets low. This isn’t 100 words, and it didn’t win, but it’s still a fun story that made me smile a little when I dug it up from my inbox.)
